The Playmate
by lordhellebore
Summary: Four-year-old Sansa needs someone on whom to practice braiding. Nobody but Sandor is available, and at first, he's skeptical about being her playmate. (Princess!Sansa, independent Northern Kingdom AU)


"I'm supposed to be your shield, princess, not your playmate."

Looking down into pleading blue eyes, Sandor wonders not for the first time in the past six moons why he'd believed that accepting this position had been a good idea.

"Oh please, Sandor? Jeyne said she'd let me practice on her, but now she's sick and has to stay in bed. Please?"

It takes him all his willpower to shake his head at the hopeful tone. "I'm not letting you mess with my hair. You can use one of your dolls." He was hired to protect the girl, and he can't very well do that if he is down on the floor with her playing. Seven hells, he shouldn't even be alone with her like this – he's not her maid or her septa – but there is a fever sweeping through Winterfell and the town, and the castle is running on a minimum of servants.

"A doll isn't the same!" Sansa complains. Now she is pouting, and damn him if it isn't the cutest thing he's ever seen. "It's got to be real hair, but Robb's and Jon's is too short, Mother is busy, Arya's too small, Septa Mordane wouldn't take off her head-covering for me even if she weren't sick, and Old Nan doesn't even really _have_ hair anymore. Please, your hair is nice and long, it's just right."

"It's not," he objects, disturbed at the idea she should find anything about him 'nice'. "You can see there's some missing. Can't practice properly on me."

"That doesn't matter. I can brush it so it looks like it's still all there. Please, Sandor." She puts her little hand on his – it's warm and soft and makes him grit his teeth with the memory of another hand just as small and soft as hers. He really should have known better than to accept.

But he had needed the position and the money that comes with it – he hadn't wanted to stay in Gregor's household for one more day, and he'd decided that he would be damned before he entered in the service of the Lannisters, who'd helped make a man like his brother a knight. Going as far away as possible had seemed smart – and going to another kingdom had seemed even smarter – so he'd gone north.

Right to the one girl who reminds him more of his sister than any he's met before. Perfect.

The hand is still in place. So are the pout and the pleading eyes. Sandor sighs. "Just . . . be careful, and don't tell anyone, do you hear?"

She nods eagerly, the pout replaced by a brilliant smile, and Sandor makes to sit down on the floor. It's the only way if four-year-old Sansa is supposed to reach his hair.

Well, he decides a few minutes later, it isn't _all_ bad. He can't remember when anybody brushed his hair last – he must have been very little – and while it sometimes hurts a bit when she combs out the tangles, it doesn't bother him. He'll only have to make sure to properly undo whatever hairdo she wants to try on him before anybody else can see it.

"I'm going to practice braiding," she announces when she's done with the comb, and Sandor is glad he is facing away from her and she can't see him grimace. He'd imagined something simple like a ponytail – she is four after all. Surely, a style as complicated as braids is impossible for a little girl like her?

Apparently, it isn't. Shouldn't princesses leave such things to their maids, Sandor wonders a little while later, as he pretends to admire the braids hanging down from both sides of his face in the small handheld mirror Sansa got him.

"That's…uh, very well done, princess."

She's beaming. "I told you your hair is just right. It's really pretty."

'Pretty' is even worse than 'nice' – he refuses to think of how some children at home had nicknamed him 'Sandor the Pretty' when they thought he couldn't hear them – and Sandor puts away the mirror, barely avoiding breaking it as he sets it down too firmly on the floor.  
"Now you listen here," he snaps, and he hates how he almost feels satisfied when she flinches at his voice, her smile gone in an instant. "There's nothing even remotely pretty about me. Stop being silly!"

Fuck, but he shouldn't let her get to him like this. It's ridiculous, she is only a little girl, and he is nine-and-ten, a man grown, with a job to do. And it certainly doesn't involve scaring the princess he's supposed to protect.

She is looking up at him wide-eyed and frowning. "I'm not being silly."

"Well, I know for a fact that you're not blind. You've got eyes in that head of yours, so use them! Take a good look and tell me what you see."

For a princess, she is remarkably obedient, he thinks as she takes a step closer, looking him up and down intently – not that he has any experience with other princesses.

"You're tall," she finally says, "and you're strong. I saw you beat Jory at practice in the yard. And you've got pretty eyes, and pretty hair. It's very soft when you've just washed it like now. And –" she comes closer yet and reaches out to run her fingers over the unmarred side of his face – "you've got a pretty face, too, where it's not burnt."

He laughs at that, and it's a harsh, ugly sound, making her flinch again, but it's all he can do to stop himself from yelling at her. How the fuck did he end up in this mess? "Yes, I'm a right charming knight, straight out of the damn stories."

Slowly, she shakes her head. "The knights in the stories use nicer words than you. And they don't get hurt like you did when they save their ladies from dragons."

Before he's got time to process this – what does she believe, that he's fought a bloody _dragon_? – her little hand is on the ruined side of his face, light as a feather, blue eyes looking up at him solemnly.

"Does it still hurt? It looks like it hurts."

Yes, he wants to say, it hurts. It hurts like he imagines the fire of a fucking dragon to hurt, that he had to come all the way to the North to have someone, _anyone_ ask that question. Or touch there willingly – even the Maester back home had shown nothing but disgust while treating him, and not even Sandor himself does it if he can avoid it at all. But his throat has tightened up on him, and he finds that he's closed his eyes so that he doesn't have to see the far too sincere concern in hers, and so he only nods. It does hurt, and worse at night, when it feels sometimes as if the flesh were alive and twisting on his cheek.

"We can go to Maester Luwin, he knows all about healing. Maybe he's got an ointment for it."

Again, all he can do is nod; he doubts Luwin will be any better than Maester Oren back home, but just the fact that she even thinks to suggest it . . . and damn it, there's something wet on his cheeks, and then a small weight settles on his lap, tiny hands once more grasping his own before . . .

It takes him some moments to understand what is happening: the princess is singing. It's a silly little song for children – he thinks he can hear the words _don't fret anymore, little darling_ – and he can't remember his mother doing it before she died in childbed, it's a damn struggle not to cry in earnest, and all of this is such a terrible _fucking mess_.

Somehow, Sandor manages to pull himself together; there are no more tears, and when the song ends, he opens his eyes to find hers once more watching him with concern. It almost makes his resolve waver.

"Do you feel better? Mother sings for me when I'm sad. I didn't mean to make you feel bad. I'm sorry."

"Wasn't your fault," he hears himself say as he carefully pulls one hand away from her grasp and wipes the tears form the good side of his face, and he cringes inwardly at how his voice is more shaky than gruff. "I doubt you could make me feel bad if you tried, little bird." He also doubts a shield is supposed to come up with a nickname for the royal he's serving, but she did sound like a little songbird, and it's not as if he will repeat it. It just slipped out this once, nothing more.

"I wouldn't," she assures him, and then, almost as if to belie that immediately, she asks: "Was it a dragon who did it?"

Part of him wants to snap again, tell her not to be stupid, that there are no more dragons, and most of all it's none of her business – only he can't find it in himself. Not anymore. What's worse, he thinks he could tell her. Maybe. Someday. Damn it all to the seven hells, this is more than inappropriate: she's a princess, and she's _four_ , and he should know better than to burden her with any of it.

"No. I – I'll tell you another time, all right?"

She hesitates, but then nods. "Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise." Strangely, this feels just as much like a promise from her as from him.

Sansa smiles before she lets go of him and gets up. "May I practice some more?" she asks. "I still can't –"

"Hey!" a voice from the door interrupts, and Sandor turns his head to find himself facing Sansa's brothers. "What's with the pigtails?"

He barely suppresses a vulgar curse, but before he's got to his feet, the two have run off, laughing and no doubt planning to spread the word that Sandor Clegane has turned from the princess's shield into one of her dolls. Wonderful.

"Don't mind them." Sansa gently tugs at his hand, probably to indicate he should sit down again. "They're just jealous."

"Of me?" Sandor very much doubts that the princes mind that they're not having their hair braided by their sister. So far, from what he can tell, neither is particularly keen on little girls' games, though sometimes they will indulge her and play dolls with her, or re-enact her favourite songs of knights and ladies.

"No, of _me_ , of course." She sounds as if he were stupid to suggest otherwise, and Sandor chooses not to comment on it. If she has decided that he's somehow special – and _pretty_ ; he can barely suppress a scoff at the mere thought – well. He won't contradict her. It's not as if there's anyone else sharing her opinion.

"Go on with your practice, then," he says as he settles down on the floor again. Soon, small gentle hands are combing through his hair once more, and he can't help but think that in the future, if she needs further practice, he won't object to being chosen for it.

Not at all.


End file.
